Winter of Discontent
by lignocainer
Summary: There's a coldness inside that has nothing to do with the weather outside
1. Chapter 1

One last spritz of hairspray, a pout at the mirror and I'm done. Looking pretty damned good, even if I do say so myself. Smiling, I turn my attention to the array of scarves laid out on my bed. Someone once told me it was possible to have too much going on, but I'm not sure I believe them. Surely it's not possible to over-accessorise? After much deliberation, I settle on a deep green chiffon scarf, an almost perfect match to the stone in the antique ring adorning my finger (found in Naboo's room a few days ago, must remember to tell him I've borrowed it). I admire the way the glitter in the scarf seems to emphasize the shimmer of the highlighter playing across my cheekbones, drawing attention away from the dark shadows under my eyes, a telltale sign of another night on the town. I congratulate myself on my skill with makeup; even under the closest scrutiny the signs of exhaustion are barely visible. Tugging on a pair of my smaller heeled chelsea boots (my feet ache like hell, I'm guessing there was dancing involved last night although I don't actually remember) I take a deep breath and head downstairs, ready to face the day.

Even with his back to me, trying his best (still pretty terrible) sales patter at a poor unsuspecting customer, he has still heard me enter the shop. I can tell this by the tension in his shoulders, the firm set of his jaw, the impatient sigh that escapes his lips. The barely disguised anger will erupt the moment the customer leaves which, by the look on her face, will be imminent. I contemplate running back upstairs before he has chance to shout at me, locking the door of my room and hiding under the covers, playing out a daydream scene where he is pleased to see me, where everything I do doesn't irritate him, where things are like they used to be. Unfortunately, I am so lost in formulating my escape plan that I miss my chance and he is upon me, brown eyes blazing.

"So, you've decided to grace us with your presence then? It was barely worth you bothering," he snapped.

Glancing at the clock, I sighed with relief.

"It's only 12.50. It's not THAT late, I've been later…"

"Just because you've been more than 3 hours late for work before, it does not mean that when you're ONLY 3 hours late, I'm supposed to be impressed! And anyway, it's not 12.50, it's 1.50. Clocks went forward this weekend, which you would have known if you hadn't spent the entire weekend in a drunken stupor or with your head down the toilet! And now, thanks to you, I'm going to be late for an important appointment."

With that, he stormed out of the shop, slamming the door behind him, leaving me standing open-mouthed, staring at the empty space he had just occupied. He hadn't even let me explain. Not that I had a real reason to be late. Well, nothing more than the hangover and the amount of time it had taken me to look presentable but still, I could have come up with some elaborate excuse. He wouldn't have believed me, of course. He never did. In fact, he never had done, but back then he used to laugh at my excuses for being late. He even kept a book with the best ones written down and I had seen him, when he didn't think anyone was looking, reading back through them and chuckling to himself. They used to amuse him. I used to amuse him. But now, I just annoyed him and I didn't know what I could do to make things right. I had tried staying out of his way, spending my weekends at Leroy's, in clubs, at parties, spending the night with strangers rather than going home to see the look of disgust on his face. That was, when he actually looked at me. Mostly he avoided me too. In the shop, he was forever busy with stationery village or stock taking, anything which meant he could turn his back to me. That hurt. Especially after I had spent so many hours choosing my outfits, hoping at least one would make him smile. He used to like my clothes, they made him laugh. Of course, he always told me that they looked awful, that I looked ridiculous, but I could tell he was joking. There was warmth in those brown eyes then, a smile playing on his lips. Now the warmth had gone. His eyes were as cold as the winter wind howling, his frosty demeanour matched by the icy glint of the pavement outside. I longed for spring to come.


	2. Chapter 2

Sighing to myself, I looked around the shop, wondering if there was anything I could do to make myself useful while he was out. Grabbing the sweeping brush, I gave the floor a half-hearted clean and was just about to throw the brush back into the cupboard when I heard opening strains of 'Paint it Black' from the old radio in the corner of the shop. Cranking it up, I danced around the shop with the broom, spinning as I sang the familiar words with the alien concept. Why would anybody want to paint things black? I want colour and sparkle and glitter. Although I quite like black nail varnish. Maybe I've missed the point of the song somewhere?

Lost in my thoughts, spinning with my broom, I failed to see the wet footprints in front of the counter, presumably from the previous customer. Skidding, I lose my balance, flailing, and crash back heavily into the counter, my arm shooting out to grab the edge and keep me from falling. I hear a smash as something is knocked onto the floor. Guiltily, I scoot round the counter to assess the damage, rubbing my bruised arm and glancing around the shop to check no-one had walked in and caught the somewhat ungainly end to my dance. Shit, it's Howard's favourite mug I've smashed. How am I going to explain this one?

Picking up the pieces, I place them gently on the counter, wondering if there's any way I can fix it before he gets back. A second glance tells me it's a lost cause. Even Naboo would probably struggle to fix it, if he were here. Which he isn't. He's at a shaman, er, some shaman thing. I've forgotten what. I wasn't really listening when he told me; I was contemplating putting some pink streaks in my hair at the time. Then I realised they would clash horribly with my favourite red satin shirt, and I'm pretty sure Howard likes that shirt, so that wouldn't do at all. And then I looked back at Naboo and he'd finished speaking and was heading out so, yeah, I'm not quite sure where he is. Thankfully I know where I can buy another mug from, so at least I can replace it. Although why anyone would want a brown checkedmug is beyond me. Still, I don't want to give Howard any more reasons to be mad at me than he has already. I can't believe how clumsy I've been. At times like this, I'm not surprised he hates me.

At that moment, Howard stormed back into the shop with a face like thunder. And he hasn't even seen the broken mug yet!

"Thanks, Vince. Thanks a lot! Since I missed my appointment at the bank, I now can't get another one for 2 weeks, which is going to be far too late, you selfish little…"

"Sorry! Jeez, it's only a bank appointment. It's not like you missed a sale at Top Shop." Sometimes my mouth engages before my brain. I can't help it. He used to find it amusing. Now he doesn't. I try again.

"Anyway, too late for what?"

"Too late for me to put down a deposit on the flat I viewed at the weekend. They agreed to hold it for me if I could get the money agreed by today. Thanks to you I'm now stuck in this madhouse..."

He was going to leave? Move out? I knew he hated me, but didn't think things were that bad. I don't want him to go.

"Oh, that's just great! My favourite mug? I leave you alone for 15 minutes and you manage to smash it? That is unbelievable."

"I'm sorry, it was an accident. I'm going to get you a new one. I'm going now. I was just waiting for you to get back. I'm so sorry…"

I dash past him, not even bothering to grab a coat, despite the freezing temperatures outside, desperate to get out of the shop and try to do something to put things right. Flinging the door open, I set off at a run, my boot catching an icy patch of pavement, sending me hurtling towards the ground. My head hits the door, which has swung shut behind me, as a sharp, stabbing pain shoots through my ankle, causing me to scream. I suddenly remember why I hardly ever wear this particular pair of boots. They have no grip! Cursing to myself, I sit forward, just in time, as the shop door swings open behind me. I look up to see Howard, anger subsided, face now etched with concern.

"You ok? It's probably not the best weather for running outside, little man, especially wearing those boots," he adds, with a smile.

Of course it's not the best weather to be running. Any idiot would know that. Any idiot but me, it would appear.

"I'm fine, I don't need your concern, now leave me alone and I'll be back with your precious mug soon," I snap, more angry at myself and my stupidity than at him.

Grabbing the wall, I pull myself up, hissing in pain and clutching my ankle as I lower myself back down to the doorstep. For a second I sit there, trembling as the cold wind cuts through my thin shirt, unsure what to do. Suddenly an arm is round my waist and he gently pulls me up. I lean heavily on him, breathing in his aftershave, the comforting scent of a home I've not had for far too long. A home I will lose completely when he moves out. My eyes fill with tears and I bite my lip, trying to choke them back. I don't want him to see me crying, not like he cares anyway, but I still don't want to give him the satisfaction. I set my jaw defiantly and we slowly hobble through the shop and upstairs in complete silence, both of us seemingly knowing there is no more to say.


	3. Chapter 3

Curled up on the sofa, I sniffle to myself. I'm not really one for self-pity but I feel so alone right now. My ankle is throbbing painfully but it doesn't hurt nearly as much as the fact that he has left me and gone back to work. Even though he knows my foot is about to drop off! I suppose I did tell him that I was ok and that I wanted him to go away, but that's hardly the point. Back in the old days he would have stayed with me anyway, just to make sure. Even if I just had a cold, he would still look after me, bringing me drinks and paracetamol, making sure I had enough blankets. I wish I had told him how much I appreciated it. I suppose I'll have to get used to looking after myself now, since he's moving out. I can't believe he's doing it. He knows how rubbish I am alone.

Feeling thoroughly dejected, I hop into the kitchen to find some painkillers and make some tea. Tea always makes me feel better. It's not quite the same if I have to make it myself, but I guess I don't have a choice now. Clicking the kettle on, I find my favourite glittery mug and manage to distract myself for a while, looking at the way it sparkles in the harsh kitchen lighting. I've had the mug for years, I bought it the first week I was at the zoo, after I refused to use the horrible brown and cream ones that Howard had. Well, actually, I haven't had this particular mug, I've managed to break at least 6 of them, but fortunately they still sell exactly the same one at the local Woolworths store, so I keep replacing it. It reminds me of happy times. I jump as the kettle boils and clicks off and clumsily pour more water on the worktop than into my mug. Tears roll down my cheeks as I hastily grab a teatowel and try to mop up the mess I've made. Yet again. Suddenly I have to get out of there and rush toward my bedroom as fast as someone on one Cuban heeled foot can rush. I've forgotten the painkillers too but at this point I don't really care anymore and simply throw myself down on the bed, pulling the covers over my head to hide me from the world.

I must have fallen asleep like that because the next thing I remember is the clinking of a steaming mug of tea being placed on the bedside table. Opening my eyes, Howard is looking down, kindly, his hand still resting on the handle of my glittery mug. The one I left half full of tea, amidst a puddle of water in the kitchen. My sleep-fogged brain grasps for an excuse for the mess I made before stomping off to bed, but fails miserably. Confusingly, he doesn't seem angry about the latest chaos I've caused.

"I closed up early. I thought you might want some tea. I didn't mean to wake you," he smiles. "How's the ankle?"

Savouring that smile, I push myself up and reach for the steaming mug, groaning as the movement jarred my injured limb.

"It's been better," I admit, embarrassed.

My heart swells as I see the concern in his face as he leans down and carefully removes my boot. He doesn't even tell me off for wearing my boots in bed, although I suspect he'll soon insist on throwing the sheets in the washing machine because much as I love him, he is a bit of a clean freak. I mean, it's not like I've been I've been running around in the mud with my boots… I wouldn't ruin a good pair of boots by getting them dirty, I'm not that stupid!

"Ouch", I yelp, as his fingers gently examine my foot and ankle. Frowning, I notice how fat my ankle looks compared to my slim leg, it looks kind of like an upside down lollipop. I'm not sure even I could make that work. I vaguely recall skipping past an article on how to hide your fat bits in a recent issue of cheekbone (well, look at me, why on earth would I need to read something aimed at fat people, I've been on an almost permanent diet for years) and make a mental note to try to find it again.

"I don't think anything's broken, Vince, it's quite swollen though, you really should have put some ice on it earlier."

"Well, I'm sure you're very relieved about that. At least it means you won't have to stick around here to look after me now, you can get on with your flat-hunting," I spit out, taking his comment about the ice as a criticism. I don't know what's got into me lately, I never used to be this sensitive. He doesn't reply and simply leaves the room as I curse myself for my inability to keep my mouth shut. Holding the now empty mug to my chest, I cling to it desperately, as though its residual warmth could do something to thaw the cold emptiness in my heart. As the mug cools in my hands, I realise I have to chase after him before I lose him forever.

This chasing lark is no easy task with my apparently unbroken but still very sore ankle and I only make it as far as the hallway outside the bedroom.

"Vince, what on earth are you doing?"

"Getting some ice, obviously, since you're leaving," I whinge, bitterly, noticing too late the ice pack in his hand.

"I'm going nowhere, little man. How can I possibly leave you, eh? You're hopeless! And anyway, if I lived alone, I'd never get to use my new first aid kit," he grins, supporting my weight easily as he steers me into the living room and back onto the sofa.

"Thanks Howard," I whisper, clutching him to me even though we are already sitting down, unable to let him go, not now and not ever.

When I wake later, I peer at him from underneath my eyelashes, pretending to still be sleeping. My bandaged foot rests on a cushion on his lap, a blanket wrapped snugly around me. A DVD is playing quietly in the background but his eyes are on me, a relaxed smile on his lips.

"Are you really staying?" I ask, my voice trembling, hardly daring to look up and meet his eyes.

"Looks that way." He raises his hand and I realise I've been clinging to his sleeve as I slept, although he's clearly been doing nothing to release my vice-like grip, and doesn't start now.

"I'm glad," I mumble, allowing my eyes to close again. I know I should say more, tell him how much I need him, how much I've missed him lately but I can't find the words. As I drift back to sleep, I think about how warm and safe I feel here with my best friend, and how I want to stay like this forever.


End file.
